


see your scars and kiss your crimes

by wanderlustt



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alistair and Inquisitor understand each other on a fundamental level, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, and I will die on this hill, it's about the yearning, just SMUTTY FANFICTION in the words of cassandra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:28:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28699179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderlustt/pseuds/wanderlustt
Summary: “You’re dying.”"Well, damn. I told Cassandra she was being overzealous about a nosebleed and now I find out that nosebleed is killing me,” she states. “If there is a Maker, he sure has a funny sense of humor.”(In which the Inquisitor finds comfort in a certain Grey Warden who's also looking for comfort in different ways.)
Relationships: Alistair/Female Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Alistair/Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Alistair/Lavellan (Dragon Age)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 16





	see your scars and kiss your crimes

**Author's Note:**

> hero of ferelden is dead in this timeline while searching for the taint cure and basically this is just me desperate to keep alistair in my inquisitor's life during his 20 minute cameo (we're in the fade rn and we're NOT LEAVING IF I CAN HELP IT. sry hawke but alistair is DIFFERENT)

“You’re dying.”

Elrina studies Solas’s face, searching for humor and good grace only to find him looking solemn and weary in that terribly incorrigible way. “Well, damn. I told Cassandra she was being overzealous about a nosebleed and now I find out that nosebleed is killing me,” she states, staring at her hand before staring over the walls of the battlements. “If there is a Maker, he sure has a funny sense of humor.”

“The nosebleed is but a symptom of a larger problem,” he says. “I’m sorry. I wish there were another way.”

“We could always cut off my hand. Feed it to the hounds,” she says, staring wistfully at the soldiers training in the courtyard. Few of them catch her gaze, saluting her. She smiles back. “But I suppose that wouldn’t be a very good idea, not while Corypheus is out there—doing—doing what, exactly?” She sighs. “Being a disease and a thorn in my boot. Right. Now. _Just Corypheus things_ ~”

He’s careful, lowering his gaze, and therein comes the punch of silence as he leans forward on the edge of the wall. “You’re taking this better than I expected,” he says. “I would’ve thought a tantrum would be in order.”

“Oh, I intend to…tantrum. Just not here. Not with you, at least,” she says rather lamely, running her fingers through the knots in her long black hair and coming to a full stop when she gets to a rather white clump. Frail and dry, like Crone’s hair. “How long do I have, Solas?”

“Remains to be seen. Could be years—months, perhaps weeks.”

“A timeframe would be nice.”

“I’m afraid—”

“Solas, please,” she says, only an ounce of desperation withered in whatever vulnerability she’s willing to show now that she has nothing left to lose. “For me.”

He takes a breath, looking over to meet her indeterminable gaze. So full of luster and cheer that one might’ve assumed he was offering her a puppy in a basket and not a life-threatening condition that would leave her with not even the vestiges of her remaining humanity. “If we’re to use your current symptoms as a barometer, and if they’re to continue as they are, then I’d say you have at best three months,” he states. “Even less if they worsen.”

“So you’re telling me I have to defeat Corypheus, close the rift, and win a war in the span of that time. And then we have to cut off my hand and hope I don't die to infection and disease,” she says, humming a soft lullaby. “Lest we witness the end of the free world as we know it.”

He pauses, “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it.” He has a look on his face like he’s holding back some preachy sermon and she can practically hear the dull humdrum in her head. _The end of the free world is already upon us, but perhaps it's the illusion of it that you continue fighting for_.

Blegh, no thanks.

“Solas.”

“Yes?”

“Will you do me a favor?” She asks, quietly. “Two, actually.”

“If it’s within my power, yes.”

“Please keep this between us. I’d like to break the news to the others myself.”

“You can count on my discretion,” he says, pausing to study her face. Still filled with that listless fervor that belies something tired. Exhausted. “And the other?”

“I’m leaving Skyhold tomorrow. And I don’t want you to ask me why,” she tells him. "I'll be back in two days."

“Are you sure this is a wise decision?” He looks indignant, maybe a little annoyed. “The Arl of Redcliffe is visiting.”

“This is why we have an ambassador to handle all the menial bureaucratic meetings.”

“I hardly think this is menial,” he says. “It could mean the difference between having four hundred trained soldiers and having none.”

“I know what’s at stake, Solas. I don’t intend to shirk my responsibilities…forever, at least.”

“Shirking your duty even for a day _is_ shirking responsibility, lethallan.”

Elrina sighs, taking a step back from the wall of the battlement to look up at the sky, only to see it beaming right back at her. “Yes, well, then I suppose you’ll have to accept it. I am shirking. I am a shirker.” She shields her eyes from the sun, wondering just how long she’d have to stare in order to sour it into a thunderstorm. “It’s two days—that’s all. No more, no less. We won’t be moving for another week, anyway.”

Solas has the look of resistance, which then melts away into gloomy acceptance when he realizes that there’s probably no talking her out of whatever nefarious plans she has. “I will do you no favors unless you tell me where it is you intend to go,” he says. “You’re the leader of the inquisition. The supposed herald of Andraste—surely you understand your part here is bigger than wherever it is you intend to…take your sabbatical.”

She considers it for a moment, “I’m going to a tavern."

“A tavern,” he repeats, so icy cold with poison it punches the air with a foul mist of disbelief. “For what reason?”

She smiles, “Why else? I’m going to drink until I vomit, and then I’m going to drink some more. I’m going to drink until I forget tomorrow—and yesterday. And then I'll drink and I'll drink and pretend like this is someone else's problem." She glances down at the tavern inside castle walls. "Maybe I'll get a head start tonight."

He stares, as if waiting for her to offer some more explanation. Or color. Or exposition. But she just smiles in the adoringly naïve way that hides some hidden intent he has no notion of understanding.

“Very well then.”

*

It's a lonely thing, drinking by yourself in a tavern where everyone knows your name, your story, and what's to come. Elrina finds herself a cozy spot at the bar with Cabot, whose magnetism at present is the fact that no one in particular really likes him, which means no one in particular will come and bother her. And the less bothering--the more drinking.

Until a certain blond-haired commander comes barging in through the front door, frowning as soon as he catches sight of his target. "You missed our meeting, inquisitor," he states, and this is before Elrina even realizes he's addressing her. And when she does, she does a weak little half-shrug before turning back to her ale. He sighs. "Of course you're not listening."

“Cullen, you seem to have a problem with me," she drawls in return, shamelessly batting her eyelashes like they're worth even an ounce of the apology she's not willing to offer. "Please explain why. I'd like to be friends."

“Where should I begin? Ever since you returned from the Hinterlands, you've been a drunk. _A slob_. A pretty face with absolutely none of the appeal. _You’re the face of our Inquisition_. Do you understand the weight of that burden? Everyone here is depending on you and _you_ \--" He watches her pat away at her foam moustache, blinking up at him with absolutely nothing in those dark brown eyes. "You don't even care."

Elrina hiccups, mired in the filth of her own degeneracy as she studies Cullen from the counter of the bar, “You think I’m pretty?”

He just stares at her, eye twitching, “Unbelievable.”

Had the circumstances been a little different, she might’ve had the privilege of seeing the commander blush, but the circumstances have insisted that she see the half of his face that’s filled with disdain and revilement.

 _Disappointment_.

She watches until he leaves, then she turns back to her freshly refilled pint, and downs the contents in one gulp.

*

Naturally, the entire Inquisition discovers her disappearance the next morning.

Cullen rubs his temples, “Where _is_ she?” But what he's thinking is: _Maybe I was too harsh. Maybe this is my fault. Maybe I'm the one who drove her away_. It's written all over his face, but so cloistered in that shell of anger that the reason seems almost irrelevant.

Solas takes a sip of tea and leans back into his chair, studying the knight commander and seeker across the candlelight. One part angry, two parts concerned. “Why do you come to me first?” It’s remarkable, he thinks, how quickly the man before him deflates as the realization begins to dawn—and how quickly his counterpart is to perk up. “Perhaps you think us close by virtue of our being elves?”

“Wait, what? I’m not insinuating—that’s not—what I—oh, Maker’s Breath. I’m too tired for this,” he says. “Cassandra. Go."

“Am I your glorified mouthpiece, commander?” She states, leaning over the desk, fists pressed into parchment. “We know she seeks your counsel, Solas. She confides in you, perhaps more than she confides in anyone else here.” And then she stops, standing up straight again. “Tell us where she went.”

“I believe you’re asking the wrong question, seeker. What you should be asking is _why is she gone_ ,” is his reply, cryptic and vague enough to make Cullen arch his neck back and _sigh_. “But enough of that. You worry needlessly. She’ll return soon enough. Two days time, apparently.”

“And we’re to take your word for it?”

He smiles, “What other choice do you have?”

*

Elrina tugs at the white lock of hair between her fingers.

The feeling is brittle, like it might just snap between her fingers. So filthy it resembles the white that befalls the wasted crones of Crestwood that’ve seen better days under the sun. Ugly. Once upon a time, her father loved her hair. Raven-black like all the dark-haired mysteries of foreign tales behind castle walls. _You have your mother’s hair, Elrina. Cherish it_. Now she wonders what he’d think if he saw her again, wasted away in the aftermath of liquor and blackout nights. Close one more rift and she might find out.

She considers, for a moment, shaving it off, only to realize she’d look rather funny with a bald patch in her hair. A selective bald patch. She wonders if it’s worth cutting off, but that would look even funnier. In fact, everything is looking a little funny, now that she’s working through her fifth pint of the night. But it’s nice—not having everyone stare all the time. Watching her every move. She can stay in this tavern forever and no one would spare her half a glance.

A complete nobody.

“Nice hair.”

She looks over her shoulder to find a man in half-armor eyeing the empty seat next to her. He’s obliviously handsome. Tan skin, kind eyes, and a devious little half-smile that spells doom and misery. There’s some sigil on his chestplate. Wings and feathers, but she doesn’t recognize it. Not while her mind, and eyes, are clouded on the cheer of liquor and fun.

“Thanks,” she says, downing the rest of the contents and flagging down the barmaid for a refill. “Now go away.”

“Go away? _Go away?”_ For whatever reason, this is the actual impetus he needs to take the empty seat right next to her. “Alright, brooder. You’re brooding. Like the cat that never caught the—oh, never mind. My point is—your brooding is stinking up the tavern.”

She stands up, ready to find another table, but he immediately alters his tune when he realizes she’s not intending to stay.

“Hey—wait. It was a joke. Sorry. Not very good at this. Talking business. Especially in taverns. Especially in taverns like this. Middle of nowhere, yeah? No Man’s Land. Can’t believe this place actually exists.” He looks sheepish now, lowering his gaze to his half-drunk pint. “You look like you needed a friend. I could too, if I’m being honest.”

Elrina stares at him, wondering if she should resent him or pity him. He seems genuine about it, and it’s enough to compel her back into her seat, even as her mind screams _don’t waste your time_. _Turn back to your drink and remember why you’re here_.

“Buy me a drink?” She says, settling somewhere in between.

Like a puppy wagging its tail, he beams.

“Name first,” he says, grinning. “Then drinks.”

“Elrina. My friends call me Rinnie.”

“Alright. Rinnifred it is.” He flags down the barmaid, nodding towards their cups for refills. “My friends call me the most handsome man in Ferelden—the others call me Alistair.”

She blinks, “Alistair? Like, _the_ Alistair?”

He smiles a tired smile, “I really need a new name.”

*

“Curly, you need a break. Have a drink with us one of these nights—play some Wicked Grace.”

“The leader of the Inquisition has abandoned her post. Our men are asking questions. Soon enough, our allies will start asking questions too—the arls, Empress Celene, _and_ Orlais,” he states, a little less sure the more and more he goes on. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I do need a drink. Maybe I can manifest her very being in the illusions of my drunken stupor. Seems to work well enough for her."

“That’s the spirit.” Varric obliges, setting down a freshly opened bottle of red wine on the table of Cullen's desk. “Look. Just had my brother send this over last week. Planned on saving it for a special-er occasion, but I figure you look like you could use a drink, or maybe three.”

“Why is no one else worried about this? Cassandra's not asking any questions. Leliana says she has other matters to attend—and Josephine. Well, Josephine is rightfully concerned, but she seems a little too eager to take over bureaucratic duties."

“They have faith she’ll return. She may be a drunk, but she keeps her promises. Relax, Curly."

“We’re on the verge of war. Don’t tell me to relax.”

“Listen, she’s probably out there. Taking care of personal business. Probably pick up some medicine to ease the pain. Maybe beat up a few kids on the way. Did you hear? The ones in Redcliffe are calling her the Banshee of the Lake. Little shits.”

Cullen stops, suddenly, just as the cup touches his lower lip, “Ease the pain?"

"Cassandra didn't tell you? Huh. Thought she did. Well, the short of it is this: we were closin' up a rift by the farms. Elrina sneezed, and suddenly she was bleeding from her eyes. Nose, too. And mouth. And don't forget the ears. She looked like an abomination. Nearly set off a bolt ‘cause I thought she _was_ one," he says. "And then she blacked out and collapsed. Cassandra carried her back." When he realizes Cullen looks like he's learning this information for the very first time, he pauses. “Ah, shit. She didn’t tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

"Well, it's not official. But I guess it doesn't take a genius to figure it out," says Varric. "She's dying--and I'd say that death is coming fast to her too."

*

“So. You could say I’m a leader of a merry band of thieves. No, mercenaries,” says Elrina, working through her seventh pint of ale—the cloud of good cheer turning into dizziness and blurs of unknowing. “We are loyal to no lords and no merchants. Just coin.”

He pauses, “But the sigil on your robes is from the Inquisition.”

The smile on her face vanishes almost instantaneously, “We aren’t very good thieves, alright?”

He snorts.

For a while, they settle into a nice silence with nothing but the slow hum of conversation in the backdrop of the tavern. Not nice enough to have a bard, but she might prefer it that way. Less ears to pry in on whatever privy musings she's having, less time to think about who might find out that leader of the Inquisition is--

“…I’m dying,” she goes on, setting down the empty pint with a gentle _tap_ that suddenly dispels whatever notion of drunken stupor she might have. “I—I’m dying and I don’t know how long I have to live. Months, probably. And I—have responsibilities to take care of before my expiration date.” When she sees the look of pity on his face, she turns away. “So there it is. My life sucks. I win.” He looks like he's searching for the right thing to say, but she interjects before he can. "And I don't really want your pity. I just want you to acknowledge my win."

“I wasn’t aware we were competing. I wasn't even aware we were playing a game,” he says. "I wouldn't want to one-up you anyway, so--"

"What do you mean? Don't tell me you're dying too."

He raises his pint, "Cheers."

She taps his cup with her own, suddenly feeling somewhat defensive. “I think that makes us even more than anything,” she states, taking only a sip of her ale before setting the cup down on the counter.

“Oh, I can do you one better, but I’ll spare you the gruesome details," he says, waving her off. "But you know--you're so adamant about winning, so I'll let you have your victory."

"I don't want that," she states, plainly. Unsure why she's ready to die on this hill. "Don't just _hand_ me the victory. I want to win fair and square." And then she crosses her arms over her chest. “What could possibly be worse than dying?”

“Finding out the love of your life is dead,” he says, without missing a beat. “And knowing you’re the reason why.”

"Oh. Fuck," she says, biting down on her tongue as she studies her empty pint, the revelation punching her straight into the realm of sobriety and regret. "Do you...want to talk about it?"

He pauses, "Actually, I do."

*

It's the same.

One day, you meet the love of your life under the most unusual circumstances and dedicate your entire self to making it work. You know you're both dying. Of what? _He's vague on the whys_ , just that it is. The love of your life sets out on a path trying to find a cure. _This is called building towards the future_. He doesn't mention kids, but Elrina can figure out the details lost in between. _Then you wake up one day and get a letter that says the love of your life is dead_.

"I'm sorry," says Elrina, even though she knows how little that might do.

"Oh please. No need for sympathy--it's been almost three years," he says with a slackjawed grin that might've convinced her otherwise, had she not recognized just how much resentment sat behind it. "Still. It's appreciated."

Another weighty silence, but this time she's thinking of her own mortality. _She could love someone one day_ , and they might love her back, but all she could offer them is three months. All she could offer them is three months of joy and a lifetime of pain. _It's not worth it_ , she thinks--no, she wonders if it's another form of betrayal left unsaid.

“Another pint then?” She offers, eyes scanning the room for the barmaid. He doesn’t say much, just gulps down the remainder of what’s in his cup before offering a cheery smile that’s somehow bereaved of any cheer at all.

"I've had enough for the night," he says.

“Fine, one more for me then.”

She gets her refill, liquor sloshing down her stomach until she’s back in the plane of unknowing levity. For a while, he just watches her, as if to study a darkspawn. All jerky and unnatural, bathed in its own sweat and blood.

“So can you tell me why the leader of the inquisition is here when she probably has inquisitor-y things to do?”

The air feels a bit hollow now, as Elrina lowers her mug, “You knew?”

“I may be a warden, but I don’t live under a rock,” he replies, leaning against one clenched fist to stare at her. “Next time I suggest using an alias. Rinnifred. _No one will suspect that_.” And then, with an even lesser smile. “Or maybe don’t show up at taverns wearing that sigil.”

The all-seeing eye, even more all-seeing now that she has two more eyeballs staring at her. “I’m just here to pass time,” she states. “Drink until I forget my own name. Who I am, where I’ve come from, and what I’m going to see in three months’ time. And should I meet a handsome stranger and should he proposition to bed me…”

It takes Alistair a moment to digest the revelation because it’s Elrina who’s actually propositioning.

“Oh no. This is about to become very awkward,” he says. “You seem like a lovely woman. More than lovely, really. And I’m sure the men in this tavern would be clamoring to be with you. But I’m old-fashioned. Actually, take away the -fashioned. I’m just old.”

She shrugs.

Another pint gone, another worry vanishing before her very eyes. No awkwardness whatsoever, not while the good cheer of liquor is still running through her veins. “That’s alright. I’ll find someone else,” she tells him with a gracious smile that looks genuine. “At the very least, I hope I was a good friend to you tonight.”

He returns the smile. Genuinely.

“You were,” he replies, voice a little softer now. “Thank you.”

They share a moment, all the chatter in the tavern coming to a standstill as they drink in each other’s gazes. So quiet and solemn; all the world could spin on and on and on—and nothing else would matter.

Until Elrina turns around and vomits right into the empty pint that should’ve been holding her ale. Just absolutely _hurls_ up all the liquor she’d had on an empty stomach, the zing of sourness and acid burning bright in her mouth. It’s like having all that beer a second time, but with absolutely none of the fun.

“Andraste’s grace—how much did you drink?”

She shoves the pint away, stumbling off the chair and onto her feet. Like a newborn toddler learning how to walk for the very first time. “Not enough, apparently,” she says, catching herself on the shoulder of his armor. Still staring ahead at the little yellow blots in the tavern that _should_ be mercenaries and men. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find myself someone to bed.”

She sours at the look of her options, especially since none of them seem particularly eager to please. Just deep inside the madness of their own contemplation. Brooding. A bunch of brooders. Ew.

“Maybe I’ll have better luck at the brothel," she suggests to absolutely no one in particular.

“I’m afraid there is no brothel in No Man’s Land,” says Alistair, catching her by the elbow just as she’s about to walk into one of the many wooden beams of the tavern. “Not sure you’re in any state to go anywhere, anyway.”

“I’m in _every_ state to go _everywhere_ ,” she says, but every word that escapes her mouth is slurred and muddled with hesitancy, as if she’s learning how to speak for the very first time too. A newborn in every single aspect. “Anyway, it was nice meeting you. Alistair. If that’s really your name.”

“Like I said, most handsome man in Ferelden has a better ring to it."

She studies his face and shrugs.

“Oh, you wound me.”

He pretends to clench his heart, only to find that she’s wriggled out of his grasp, stumbling towards the back of the tavern where there’s a group of men gathered around what seems to be a game of Wicked Grace. Except she never actually makes it there.

Because she trips over her own two feet, ramming head-first into the edge of the table, and promptly passes out on the floor.

Like a corpse.

For a moment, the entire tavern holds it breath, but resumes conversation within the span of seconds when they realize she’s not standing up.

*

“Ouch.”

Alistair beams, looking up from the writing desk, “Great timing, Rinnifred.”

“It’s _Rinni_ —” She blinks, the haziness still clouding her better senses as she pushes herself up from her sleeping cot. But whatever haziness she has is immediately cast away when she realizes there’s a _dull_ throb of pain in her forehead. “My head…”

“Yes, your head. Ran into a table. Shook the whole tavern. Everyone thought it was an earthquake. Imagine their disappointment.”

Eyes opening blearily, she studies the contents of the room. A desk currently occupied by the most handsome man in Ferelden, self-appointed, and a nightstand with the book of Andraste sitting alongside a half-lit candle. “I ran into a table,” she repeats, the words sticky in her mouth that still tastes like vomit. “I—”

A wave of nausea comes over her so profound, she feels the acid rush of vomit into her mouth like a geyser—

“Bucket’s on the floor,” says Alistair, and she reaches down just in time to expel the contents of her stomach into the dark basin of nothingness. “Yeesh. Not feeling too hot, are you?”

It’s an intimate thing to do—to vomit in front of a stranger. Hurling out all your innards with all these disgusting grunts. “No,” it’s all she can muster out as she buries her face into the black abyss, waiting for that inevitable second wave of nausea to kick in, only for everything to stop. The ache in her head is apparently what has her attention now. Nausea will have to take a backseat. “Did you get the room? I can pay you—"

“It’s fine. Consider it repaying the favor. Listening to my blabber,” he says, standing up from the writing desk. “You’ve a hot bath waiting for you in the washroom. Well, it was hot. The innkeeper made it about an hour ago. Might be a cold bath now. Either way, good bath. Very much needed, for you especially.” He looks smug about it, just short of smiling. “Now that I know you’re very much not dead, I’ll excuse myself for the night."

She glances out the window at the moon, “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I couldn’t leave my friend on the floor. You were incapacitated. They would’ve buried your body while it was still warm had I not checked for a pulse.”

She smiles, “Funny."

“I do try my best.”

He pauses a moment longer before turning towards the door, but she clears her throat. “Will you—um, stay?” She asks, taking a breath. “We don’t have to do anything. I just—I could use a friend right now too.”

Both of them are surprised when his answers comes out a whispered, “Alright.”

*

"I don't want to die."

Alistair listens, arms crossed over his chest as he studies Elrina's face, so full of trepidation and fear she looks like a scared little girl.

"I want to live so badly--I'd do anything," she whispers. "A hero? That's not me. I never asked for this. But you know what? I've come to terms with the fact that my fate is sealed. But not dying on my own terms? That's...just bullshit, isn't it? If I'm to die, I want to die with every vestige of my own awareness still in tact. The soldier that dies on the battlefield fights with the knowing that he'll likely perish while swinging his sword. These are things that you get to choose. Things that you have control over."

She studies the mark on her hand, so angry and loathing she wishes she could manifest a time and place where she _never had it to begin with_. "With... _this_ , I could go to sleep and never wake up the next morning. All these people depending on me? It would've been for nothing. It would've been wasted. And I hate that." And then she drops her hand, feeling every ounce of resolve vanish inside those withered bones until she has nothing but hopelessness and despondency.

A sigh, "I've never told anyone that before."

He looks...solemn. So unlike himself, bathed in the moonlight. Shadows sweeping across his face--covering the stubble on his chin. He looks like he's about to tell her sorry, but instead he just walks over and wraps one arm around her shoulder--

And suddenly she's weeping.

Into his chest, cheek pressing against the fabric of his tunic. Bawling like she's been saving her tears for years, which can't be far away from the truth. The moment rings with the song of _I don't want to die, I don't want to die, I don't want to die_ , but he understands. The truth is, he doesn't want to die either. He understands. He consoles. And when he holds her, he feels a breath of consolation expel itself when he exhales into her hair.

(He realizes she smells like home.)

*

She peels off her robes, one layer at a time, until she’s nothing but skin and bones underneath the dim candlelight inside the washroom. Shadows and snakes slithering against the indents of her body—behind her knees, between her toes, and underneath her neck.

The water is cold, frigid to the touch, but she sighs contentedly as she leans up against the basin. Rinsing her mouth with soap and oils until all she can taste is the backwash of gooseberries and lavender. The throb in her head has yet to subside, and it’s tender to touch, but all she can do is hold herself and shake and wonder what comes next—but also wonder, as she sinks beneath the surface of the water, nothing at all.

*

“There. That’s better,” says Alistair. “Good bath right? Sobering.”

“Bold of you to assume I want anything to do with being sober right now,” is Elrina’s reply, as she takes a seat on the edge of the bed, hair still dripping wet. Beads rolling down her skin, and onto the blankets below, where it forms pellets of polka-dots. “But…thank you. For listening.”

She pauses, looking out the window. “Sometimes it’s better to offer your burdens to a stranger.” And then she smiles a little. "I'm lucky it was a stranger who happened to understand."

“Ah, yes. A stranger who understands too well. Now it’s my weight to bear,” he says with a finicky little smile. “Now I’ll get out of your hair before I outstay my welcome. Around this very. Very small inn. We’re neighbors, practically.”

“Right. Neighbors.”

She steals a glance he doesn’t catch, and he, in his own painfully awkward way, steals a glance at her that she fails to catch. “Well, good night then,” he says, words all jumbled as he makes his way towards the door.

“Alistair--will you--”

“I can’t—do this,” he says. “I—"

Elrina stands from the bed, “For tonight. Just for tonight." Closer and closer she comes, shadows looming close and covering every inch of her from behind. "Let's just pretend we're other people." She tiptoes up to press the chastest little kiss on his cheek, gentle and soothing--the contact somehow so profound it sends a wave of warmth right through both of their bones.

A pause comes next--nothing in the air except the sound of tired breaths.

Suddenly he closes the gap, lips crashing against hers in all his clumsy fervor. Lips parting to taste all the caverns of her mouth, hands running through her hair. Catching every knot and tassel. And then he lifts her as she wraps her legs around his waist, both of them stumbling towards the featherbed. Where he lays her down gently, as if she’s made of glass. Handling her with a gentleness he doesn’t afford the others in his line of work.

He thinks she looks so pretty under the shadows of the candlelight. If he squints hard enough, he can almost see someone else. He wonders if that would be meant as a sign of disrespect, but for all her forthcomingness, she’s surprisingly shy when he starts unlacing the neck of her tunic. “Something wrong?” He asks, coming to a halt, suddenly seeing her again. Just a frightened young woman whose hesitancy looks like it’s bringing her back to reality.

“Forgetting...it was easier in theory. But,” she sighs, drawing him in for a kiss again. He closes his eyes, feeling her straddle him—she’s so small in his grasp. “I’m trying.”

“Me too,” he whispers, honestly this time, which is all he can offer as his hand flutters underneath the hem of her shirt back. Each vertebrae of her spine digging into his knuckles as he feels her skin. One jagged scar that runs from the left shoulder to her waist. And another right underneath her neck. A roadmap of lesions that he can’t see yet but wants to learn more about. Earnestly.

He helps unclothe her, pulling off her top until she’s half-naked in his lap and the throb between his legs is that much more apparent. _You’re beautiful_ , he thinks, but it’s too painful to offer her borrowed words from once upon a time, even if they are in good faith. Even if it’s the one thing he means tonight.

He turns her on her back, pressing a kiss to her neck before lining it down between her breasts, down her stomach, to the hemline of her smallclothes. “Alistair—wait,” she murmurs with a soft urgency that makes him look up, fingers still ghosting the dip of her waist. “Just not there, alright?” And then, with cheeks red as a tomato: “Anywhere else is fine.”

“You’re telling me you don’t want my mouth between your legs?” He says with half the bravado he once had.

“I don’t know you _that_ well,” she tells him, curling up onto her side. Apparently startled by her own nakedness, but not startled enough to pry him down behind her into a spooning position. She takes his hand gently, guiding it between her legs to feel how warm she is. How sticky. Teeming with desire and heat. “Just like this.”

“I’m good at following orders,” he says, voice huskier this time.

His fingers slides right between her folds and she shivers with the newfound pressure that slowly melts into pleasure as he curls it up in a come-hither motion. He presses a kiss to her neck, wet and sloppy, before pulling out his finger and rubbing wet circles against the peak between her folds. She hums at the sensation, arching her neck back as he lathers one long lick against her skin.

He flips her onto her stomach, shoving down his trousers and stroking himself as he lines up between her legs. She crawls onto her knees, arching her back and offering him access enough that when he shoves himself inside her—all at once—she audibly gasps. “F— _fuck_ ,” but whatever sound that comes out sounds like a whimper.

“That good, huh?”

“Hurts—"

“What? Oh, Andras—” He’s on the verge of pulling out, but she grabs him, quite skillfully, by the wrist. Freezing him in place.

“Just fuck me,” she says, falling to her elbows. “Please.”

“But—”

“—it’s nothing,” she says, pushing back against him—feeling him stretch her. “Just go.”

“Are you sure?”

“ _Alistair_ —it hurt for a second. I’m fine now.”

He pauses, as if to ascertain whether or not she’s lying for his sake, and decides to give an experimental thrust, which is enough to make her whimper in pleasure. “Just like that,” she says, breathlessly this time. One hand reaching down between her legs to touch herself as she squeezes and wrings his cock. Warm slick walls clenching down. _Andraste’s grace_ , he could cum right now inside her because the image is so inviting.

If he shuts his eyes, pretend she’s someone else, someone—

“Alistair. Close,” she whispers, a voice unrecognizable to the illusion he’s conjured inside his head. There’s a dribble of saliva coming down the corner of her mouth, and for whatever reason, it compels him to throw all caution to the wayside and kiss her. Tongue licking hers in the most sloppy, unidealistic way. For what it’s worth, she tries to kiss him back, almost unceremoniously, as her buries himself inside her—buries her against the sheets of the featherbed.

“That was quick,” he says, slowing his pace down, watching her touch herself—feeling her slick walls choke out his cock until he’s trying _not_ to cum.

But she does first, the tremors of her walls enough to wring out his orgasm. She cums quietly, with barely a gasp, collapsing onto her cheek, and he pulls out right after her, watching the pearl of white form between her folds before collapsing behind her. Wet and sticky and hot with sweat.

She turns around to face him, “That was quick.” Mocking, but warm. With a smile that looks gentle and at ease.

“It’s been a while,” he says. “You’re lucky I lasted more than a minute.”

“Right. I’m the lucky one,” she replies, curling up against the pillow. A wedge of space sitting still between them, neither of them willing to close. “So…after this…”

“Uh-oh. Here we go. Listen, you’re a nice young lady, but I’m a widow. I’m grieving. Not in the right place to accept any kind of proposal.”

Something settles on her face that looks a lot like happiness. Feigned as annoyance. “Oh no. Here I thought we could go riding off into the sunset together, away from all this. Get married, have a kid, settle down somewhere in Ferelden where no one knows our names or our stories. Sounds nice, yeah?”

He pauses. Oh, it looks like it’s hit some kind of nerve. Like writing down the ending to a story he also wrote for himself once upon a time—probably with someone else.

“I’m _joking_ ,” she tacks on, sitting up to grab her tunic. “If I see you again, great. If I don’t, it was really nice meeting you, Mister most-handsome-man-in-Ferel—”

He grabs her by the wrist and tucks her back onto her side of the bed.

“Stay,” he says, softly. “Just for a little while.”

She pauses and studies his face, so full of desperation and forlornness it looks like he’s about to beg.

So she lays back down, feeling his arms wrap around her and pretends she’s somewhere else. Somewhere far, far away. _In this version of her life_ , she’s the Hero of Ferelden. People still know her name, but no one’s depending on her anymore. She doesn’t have the mark, doesn’t have that feeling of unknowing, doesn’t—

“Thank you,” he whispers.

**Author's Note:**

> title from "all night" by beyonce woooo
> 
> i'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/wanderlu5tt) if u wanna talk about dragon age!!!
> 
> should be 3 chapters..... but i will keep this as a oneshot as is since it can standalone and because ive been very inconsistent with writing these days so i dont wanna make any promises i can't keep.....


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